“Qué demonios?” Carlos hissed.
The Albanians’ leader, a mountain of a man with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a butter knife, bellowed, “What the hell is going on here?”
His gaze landed on Sean, who was frozen mid-loading, looking guiltier than a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—if the cookies were illegal narcotics and the jar was the trunk of his beat-up car.
Carlos, his mustache twitching like an angry caterpillar, shot back, “We thought he was with you!”
The Albanian’s laughter could’ve curdled milk. “We don’t know thispendejo!”
And just like that, the powder keg ignited. Carlos and his crew came at us like we’d insulted their mothers, grandmothers, and their entire ancestral line.
“Get in!” Sean’s voice hit a high note of panic that would’ve been comical if we weren’t about to die. I didn’t need to be told twice. I dove into the passenger seat, my heart racing faster than a greyhound on a Red Bull binge. As Sean fumbled with the keys, the car coughed and wheezed like an asthmatic after a marathon.
“Come on, you old heap of junk,” I muttered under my breath.
Then, as if the evening needed more unwelcome guests, more cars screeched into the lot, disgorging an army of men who clearly didn’t come to exchange pleasantries. Great. More people to kill us. Just what we needed.
I squinted through the chaos and spotted William Bosworth. Of all the people to show up, it had to be him. His pale-blond hair glinted under the harsh lights, making him look like an avenging angel—or maybe just an annoyed one. He marched straight to Carlos and the Albanian, their voices rising in a noise of accusations and threats.
Meanwhile, Sean’s old jalopy was doing its best impression of a paperweight. The engine coughed and spluttered but refused to start. Typical. If there was ever a time for this car to play dead, it had to be now.
Sean was cursing the car and smacking the dashboard like it was a stubborn mule refusing to budge. I glanced out the window again to see the conversation on the other side had escalated quickly from heated words to a full-blown shouting match.
The next thing I knew, fists were flying faster than insults at a roast. And then shots rang out, turning the parking lot into an action movie set minus the special effects team. I ducked instinctively as bullets ricocheted off concrete and metal.
I felt my heart leap into my throat as a behemoth of a man wrenched my car door open—locked door be damned—and grabbed me by the collar. Instinct kicked in; I wasn’t goingdown without a fight. I swung wildly, my fists finding flesh, and somehow—I swear it must’ve been adrenaline—I sent the man twice my size crashing to the ground.
I turned back to Sean, ready to make our great escape, but what I saw stole the breath from my lungs. Sean slumped over, his shirt blossoming with crimson as if he’d decided to start an impromptu tie-dye project.
Panic clawed at me as I reached for him, but he just gave me this pained smile that looked more like an apology than anything else. “I’m sorry,” he rasped out. “Run!”
I didn’t have time to argue or process or do anything but react as more men came charging at us like bulls seeing red. Bullets zipped past me close enough to singe hairs as I bolted from the scene.
With each stride away from that metal graveyard of cars and corpses, my chest tightened—not just from exertion but from something far worse. A glance over my shoulder confirmed my worst fears: Sean lay motionless on the ground, drawing what looked like his last breath.
Tears blurred my vision as I sprinted away, each sob tearing through me like a jagged knife. I wanted to stop, to go back for him, but if I did, I’d be joining him on the cold asphalt.
I burst through the stairwell door and stumbled down the steps, the sounds of gunfire and shouting echoing around me like some twisted symphony.
I careened into the alleyway, but hope was a slippery fish, and mine was about to be gutted. Two goons caught up with me—clearly not here to offer condolences or help with funeral arrangements. One introduced his fist to my face with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer meeting fine china. The world spun as I tumbled down like yesterday’s laundry.
Before I could catch a breath, a boot found my stomach, driving the air from my lungs like it was evicting a stubborntenant. Gasping, I curled up as best I could to protect what little was left of me.
“Stay down, you little shit,” one of them sneered.
The click of a gun hammer being cocked was the worst lullaby I’d ever heard. I squeezed my eyes shut tight enough to see stars and waited for the final punchline.
A gunshot split the night, and for a moment, I figured that was it—I’d left this world with as much grace as an elephant on roller skates. But when the pain didn’t come, when the darkness stayed just an eyelid away, confusion set in.
I cracked one eye open and—surprise!—there lay one of my would-be assassins in an ever-widening pool of his own bad decisions. My gaze shot up to find Matt stalking toward us like vengeance had just slipped on a tailored suit.
The other thug decided he’d rather live to thug another day and took off like a jackrabbit on a caffeine high. Matt’s gun barked twice more—a parting gift that missed its mark.
He stood over me now, gun still smoking like it was fresh off a Marlboro ad. Matt’s steel-gray eyes locked on mine—storm clouds ready to burst—and he snatched me up by the scruff of my neck.
Matt’s grip on the back of my head was anything but gentle, fingers digging into my scalp with the possessiveness of a lion reclaiming its territory. His eyes were molten steel, his fury palpable.
“You’re fucking grounded,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that could’ve doubled as a warning from Mother Nature herself.
